It works for us
by namedthingsyouthrowback
Summary: Everyone sees them fighting, but at the end of the day, there's that wink just between them and they part feeling a little lighter. Germany and Romano finding that things aren't so bad between them, and Prussia occasionally shoving his way into the middle.
1. A conference

'My ass is not here for your personal enjoyment, cheese-eating douchebag! Stop staring at it!'

Germany sighed. Romano's sudden shriek cut through England and America's shouting like a knife, stopping the argument dead. France looked nervous while Spain glared in his direction.

'If there is not a problem, South Italy-Romano, may we move on?' he asked in a tired voice, rubbing his temples. He'd had a headache since morning, the moment he saw _Greek Economy Measures_ right above _Turkish EU Application_ on the meeting agenda.

'You can shut up too, jerk-face. It's lunchtime ok, or did you not see the damn clock through that sausage-greasy cloud you live in?' And with that Romano stood up and started gathering his things, Spain immediately leaping up to help and starting off another (quieter) round of bickering. France edged quickly towards the door, England close behind.

'And don't you dare thinking about starting up again anytime soon, potato head. It's going to take me at least three hours to find a decent place to eat around here that serves food better than I would give to my dogs!' Romano yelled back over his shoulder, dragging his brother along as the northern twin tried to cling and squeal about pasta.

Germany sighed and neatly stacked his papers. Three hours, he'd found, meant at least four to an Italian. Well, at least with North Italy gone he could have a proper hearty German lunch, and there would still be time left for nice long nap to soothe his aching head. And when he'd got through the crush of nations squeezing out the single door, he found that someone- perhaps a mafia-trained, sticky-fingered someone- had dropped a bottle of headache tablets in his coat pocket.


	2. A phone call to start it all

'Good luck, mein freund,' he said with a surprisingly easy smile and equally surprising truthfulness. It was all he could do to keep from laughing at the 'Herr Sassafras' comment- Romano in his so-called Shitstorm Mode probably wouldn't appreciate that.

But he seized the live grenade from Romano's mouth and flung it far away in plenty of time, throwing himself to the ground with his arm around the Italian's shoulders to drag the spitting and cursing man down with him just in case it wasn't far enough. Romano's forlorn expression as he sat up and surveyed the new crater in Spain's back yard made him smile, too. 'Cheer up, mein freund,' he said, and chucked the man under the chin just like a laughing Prussia had done to him when he was small and 'so serious, Luddy!' 'There's always next time.'

Of course, Romano began to bawl and curse a mile a minute about potatoes and Veneziano and Turkey and pasta prices so Ludwig patted him on the back, turned him to face the tomato gardens (into which he crawled, still crying, though the sound of sobbing were quickly overtaken by sounds of munching- Ludwig's book had stated, apparently correctly, that Italians are great comfort eaters) and strode off whistling, thinking he might pick up some of Gilbert's favourite sangria before he left Spain. His doctor was always after him to eat more fruit.

/

'Germany, Germany! There was a noise outside my window so I got my gun like you told me to but it made the scary noise again and it startled me so I dropped my gun out the window and I think it's England coming to take me back to his prison and his blood pudding so you have to help meee!'

Ludwig groaned, holding the phone away from his ear. 'England has nothing to do with you anymore. It was probably just an owl. Go back to bed, Italy.'

'Veh, but what if it was big brother France, come to kidnap me again? Or big mean scary Turkey? Or the ghost who lives above America? Waaaah, I don't want to die! Germany, you have to come help me!'

Ludwig considered thumping his head against the wall behind him, but decided it would only make his headache worse. 'France and Turkey have nothing to do with you either. And...'

_'Hey, West, look!' Prussia struck a heroic pose and held aloft a glass bottle. 'Canada sent me more awesome maple syrup! You'll make pancakes for my awesome breakfast now, ok?'_

'..._Canada_ has no interest in an annex. Tell your brother to chase the owl away for you and go back to sleep.' Romano would probably swear and throw tomatoes at the poor thing. At least it would leave and he could get some sleep.

'But I can't, Romano isn't here! Germanyyy!'

Ludwig gave in to temptation and banged his head a couple of times back against the wall. Of all the nights for Romano to go out...probably with a stunning caramel-skinned, chocolate-eyed Italian woman in a low red dress and scarlet stilettos. They'd be sipping finely made martinis at the bar right now, Romano's hair hanging a little in his eyes and her cheeks charmingly flushed from the exhilarating tango they'd just performed, because naturally Romano's chosen restaurant would have a classic dance floor and live Spanish band along with perfect veal cutlets and the very best of wines. Right at this moment, Romano was probably murmuring those seductive lines he pulled from the air in his practised rich, deep voice, his fingers lightly stroking the back of her hand- while he, Ludwig, was woken up from an early night's sleep to deal with the annoying younger brother. This, as he would have whinged if he were the type to whinge and complain, was _so_ completely unfair. 'Can't you call him? Maybe he can stop by home before he continues his date.'

'But he's not on a date, veh! He's out doing some scary Mafioso stuff and I don't know when he'll be back. And when he does he'll probably be scarier than Mr England, veh!'

Ludwig sat up, rubbing the sand from his eyes. 'What is Romano doing with the Italian mafia?'

'Well, he is the godfather, you know! And he said some of the families are thinking that with the economy going down the way it is this would be a good time to ignore fratello and take over government like he told them not to, veh! So I think Romano had to go show them he's still a strong boss, like big brother Spain except with a gun instead of an axe and less turtles.'

Ludwig considered. Romano was normally a coward, but he also wasn't the mafia leader without reason. Then again, the falling economy had to be leaving him weak. 'What would he have to do to stay on top in the mafia, Italy?' he asked curiously.

'Oh, I don't know. He'll probably shoot some people and get shot at and scream curses a lot. He always tells me to shut up when he comes home all bloody. It makes such a mess on the carpets. Germanyyy! It made the scary noise again!'

Ludwig sighed, threw back his blankets, and combed back his hair with his hands. 'I'll be there soon.'


	3. A new understanding

**I'm posting this as I write it...which is randomly, in random snatches of time at work, then typing it up around midnight before going to sleep...so check back again soon as I'll probably alter the chapters a little and fix any mistakes. Thanks for patience!**

* * *

Romano dragged himself from his little red Fiat- the old classic version, obviously, what the hell would he want with the modern American monstrosity?- bone weary and bleeding all over his shirt. His _brand new, cameo pink_ shirt. He was so cross as well about the oil stains on the knees of his favourite pinstripe trousers that he barely noticed the big, black station wagon in the drive as he limped to the front door.

'Never again,' he barked, slamming the door shut behind him. 'Why the fuck do we always have to meet in auto garages these days? And what kind of stupid asshole fights with knives anymore? Che palle!'

'Fratello!' Veneziano came flying out of nowhere and squeezed him with all his might. Romano's ribs groaned. 'Romano, I was so scared! There was a noise outside and I thought it was big brother France or Turkey or England back with his dog food and you weren't here so I had to call Germany but he just sat here drinking coffee but he brought a big box of stuff but he won't let me look at it because he says it has to stay clean and-'

'Get off me you stupid idiot, my ribs already hurt enough without you crushing me to death! Chigi!' He shoved Veneziano away, who looked like he was about to burst into tears, and shouldered his way through to the kitchen. Normally he'd feel bad but right now he was more concerned whether or not he could save his new shirt. 'There'd better be some pasta left, I'm fucking starving. And what were you saying about the kraut-breath?' He pushed open the kitchen door. Germany stood up from the table and nodded sharply.

'Romano.'

Romano shrieked and threw himself backwards through the door. 'Chigi! What the hell is the borscht-bastard doing here, eh?'

'He came to help with the scary noise!' Veneziano beamed.

'Yeah, but why is he still here? You should have sent him straight home, not invited him in for a biscotti and a cappuccino!'

'Veh, but he wanted to wait until you got home! That's what the box is for!'

'For me, eh?' Romano narrowed his eyes and squared his shoulders. So, the potato head wanted to see him about something, eh? Laugh at his trouble with the mafia? Well, he'd show him! He kicked the kitchen door in. 'Alright, Herr Haagen Dazs, what do you want?'

Germany was calmly taking things out of his box and setting them down in an orderly manner on the table. Scissors, bottles, gauze, tape. 'I'm here to help you with your injuries,' he said, voice as placid as his blank expression. 'I know from trying to train your brother that he is not the most efficient or skilled in first aid.'

'You shut up about my brother, okay?' Romano grumbled, already rolling up his sleeves to expose the raw, handcuff-sized rings around his wrists. He stuck his arms under a cold rush of water in the sink, gritting his teeth as the skin burned. 'And I don't need any help from you.'

Germany grunted and finished setting out his supplies. He then walked over to the sink, pausing halfway over to shut and lock the door (and Romano didn't shiver at all at the resounding click). The looming blond head hovered on the edge of Romano's vision as he continued letting water run over his wrists, trying to rinse away the embedded grit.

'How did it get so dirty?' a deep voice rumbled behind him.

'Got shoved across the floor and cuffed around a dirty pipe,' Romano snapped. Deeming the cuts clean, he shut off the water and reached for the nearest towel. Germany gently caught Romano's hands in his bigger sausage fingers and tugged him to the table.

'You need to put some antiseptic on that. There might still be pieces from the metal or floor.'

'No I fucking- chigi!' Germany had dumped a bottle of hydrogen peroxide over his wrists, soaking the blistered skin and making the cuts fizz angrily. 'What the fuck did you do that for, you turnip-mongering-'

Germany gave him a stern look with icy blue eyes, and Romano shrunk quietly into a chair as the tall blond carefully wrapped his wrists in gauze. Well. It's not like he could really do that part himself anyway. And he might as well let the cabbagehead waste his own supplies. So he sat docile as Germany deftly and efficiently stripped off his shirt and vest, cleaning his various cuts and scrapes, settling his left arm into a sling when they jointly decided that putting a much larger, very angry mob boss into a strangling headlock had been perhaps very effective but nevertheless Not A Good Idea, No Matter How Badass (and Romano just couldn't help the tiny twist of a smile at the obvious impression in his nursemaid's voice as he said those words). By the time they finished with his torso it was well past three in the morning, Veneziano had finally stopped wailing behind the locked door, and Romano had loosened up enough to start regaling his captive audience with tales of his Mafioso exploits.

'And then that douchebag Vincento showed up, nobody likes him, he's a fucking idiot and acts like he's in an Al Pacino movie- he even bought those stupid red trousers like the guy is wearing in the beginning of Scarface, who the fuck wears those? And he's supposed to be Italian! Country of fashion sense, you know? I don't think even someone with what goes for fashion sense in your country would wear shit like that anymore, eh, Potatohead?'

'I've never seen the film,' Germany confessed. Romano was shocked.

'What! How can you not have seen it? You own it! Your brother has all those movies! _Scarface_, the _Godfather_ trilogy, _Il camorrista_, _La mala ordina_, all on the original release date vhs' and the new super edition dvds!'

Germany raised an eyebrow, pausing his work in applying a thick white cream to the powder burns on Romano's hands. Fucking useless old-school piece-of-shit guns. So pretty, though.

'How do you know what films my bruder has?'

Romano shrugged, inspecting the broken ends of his fingernails. Ugh. He needed to fix that. He glanced over at the short, ridged, ragged nails on Germany's calloused hands. Now, that _really_ needed fixing. 'I gave them to him of course, you idiot. The vhs' he asked for with a note on Gilbird- or Gilbird and a Pierre tag-teamed it because they're both too small alone, stupid little fluffballs- way back when they first came out, you know, East Germany days. The dvds were birthday presents.'

Germany looked shocked. 'You talked to Gilbert behind the wall? You sent him movies? How? Russia refused to give him anything from me!'

Romano scoffed. 'Well, you're not Sicilian, are you, Deutsch Dog? I had no problems. Anyway, I can't believe you didn't know that. He comes over once a year or so and we watch the whole Godfather trilogy back to back, then _Profumo di donna_ and whatever German shit he brings. I thought you kept tabs on him, fucking nuisance.'

Germany looked thunderstruck. 'I didn't even know you two were friends,' he said blankly.

'Oi, we're not friends, dumbass! It's like a two-person club for former nations. And people other people can't stand. And older brothers who aren't as good as their younger brothers...'

/

Ludwig stared. Romano seemed to be speaking to himself now. Which was a good thing, really, because Ludwig didn't know how to comfort the man if he snapped out of his introspective moment. Everything he had said was true, though. Gilbert and Romano really were rather similar now that he thought about it. Both with rough, abrasive personalities, both without a place in the politics of the modern world, both with a surprising and outdated chivalry, both with an unshakeable scrap of deep-rooted religious devotion left from earlier days.

Both now merely existing in the shadows of well-known younger brothers.

He couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before. Of course they'd be friends! They could relate to each other in ways that no other nation could. And...they were both so proud and stubborn that neither would want their little alliance against a forgetful world discovered by anyone else. He wondered how often they were able to meet and soothe their lonely aches, given that they both lived with their brothers and neither had an economy healthy enough for distant or frequent holidays. But perhaps he could do something...after all, his greatest nightmare, in the terrifying quiet of his bedroom, was that he might wake up to find the great once-Prussia faded away, much like Romano might be expected to now that his broken nation was unified and only the northern half was acknowledged on the word stage. He wondered if the two together were all that kept them around, some days. The thought broke a little the heart he thought he'd gilded in iron.

'You should come over sometime,' he suggested mildly, keeping his voice steady, 'and watch those films with bruder and I. I am sure there will be elements of Italian culture and history I will not understand without assistance, and I am sure my irresponsible bruder has failed to thank you properly for your gifts; it will be an opportunity for him to do so. He makes very good cakes.'

Romano's cheeks went pink and he mumbled a long string of rapid Italian/English interspersed with cursing, from which Ludwig could pick out only what sounded like 'I know he does...that cherry one' and 'of course you wouldn't fucking understand, fucking Bildung bastard' and 'not like I can say no, asshole, make me sound rude...' He figured that was as close to an acceptance as he would get and stepped back to admire his patching up with satisfaction.

'Almost done,' he said. 'Now, take off your trousers.'

Romano's eyebrows shot up. 'Look, broetchen-brains, I don't know how your country works but that's not how we pay for services rendered around here!'

Ludwig felt his face go red. 'I didn't- your knees,' he mumbled, sure that he hadn't felt so embarrassed since Gilbert announced on his blog that the younger Germanic used wurst to 'relieve his frustrations.' They were relaxing to cook, verdammt! Gott. Why was it always wurst? But Romano saved him from further humiliation, glancing down at his stained trousers and going into a furious, spitting mix of English and Italian.

'And these are my favourites, Armani himself gave them to me, made by his best tailor! And this fucking stain will never come out, maledizione...'

'I can get the stains out,' Ludwig said quickly, keen to salvage some dignity. 'Mein bruder often comes home with strange stains and I have become very good at removing them.'

The effect of this statement was instantaneous. Romano blanched, gagged, and dashed his head against the solid kitchen table. 'Ugh- you stupid flaedlsuppe-face, I don't _ever_ want to know about what kind of stains your perverted brother comes home with! Mio dio, I need brain bleach!'

'Yes...well,' Ludwig muttered. 'The oil stains on your trousers will pose no challenge. And you shouldn't hit your head like that when you already have a concussion.'

'Shut up, germknoedel-guts, it's all your fault anyway!'

'Out of curiosity, how is it that you know so much about German food?'

'I know nothing!'

/

In the end, Romano handed over his beloved trousers, though not without much threatening and suspicion. Ludwig slept the night on the sofa because Feliciano claimed that the German would be sleeping with him, and the promise-of-death look in Romano's eyes made him nervous to sleep anywhere without a good number of escape routes. Twenty minutes after lying down on the comfortable, if a little short, sofa with one of Veneziano's pillows and a thick quilt, he heard the soft, soothing _hoo...hoo_ of an owl. He smiled. Not a minute later, he sat up in shock at the blast of a gunshot from upstairs.

'And stay away, you stupid fucking vermin!'


	4. A conference while the soap soaks in

Warning: a little America bashing, some reference to Nazis and one to the Vietnam War. Just for plot points! I have nothing against Americans, I promise! 3

* * *

'You're such a grammar Nazi!'

'Don't be ridiculous, America!'

'Yes, you are, you're a totally obsessed grammar Nazi!'

'Please don't use such language, Amérique...'

'Grammar Nazi! Grammar Nazi! En-gland's a grammar Nazi!' America sang, fist-pumping as he danced in circles around his end of the table. Romano felt a vein in his forehead twitch. What a _fucking_ idiot. He opened his mouth to yell something rude but someone else beat him to it.

'Shut up, Amérique!' France snapped, all traces of his usual good humour gone. His summer sky-blue eyes were sharp and his mouth pressed into a line. 'No-one wishes to hear of your prejudices here, Alfred. Please apologise.' It was rare that France went into Papa Francis mode anymore. Rare enough that America was startled into an equally rare moment of silence before looking to England for help, but the bushy brows were drawn together in a matching disapproval. America drew himself up.

'Hell no, dude! I don't have anything to say sorry for. It's just a saying, it's not prejudice! We don't do prejudice in the USA! Ever heard of the Civil War, buddy?'

China looked confused. 'Which civil war do you mean?'

America's jaw dropped. 'What? You mean somebody else stole the name of our war? Not cool, man! Alright, hands up! Who dunnit?'

England sighed, raising his eyes to the ceiling. 'Who _did_ it, if you don't mind. And nearly all of us have had a-'

'See! You're such a grammar Nazi!'

There was a light rustle from the centre of the U that the tables formed. Just a few papers falling to the floor from a trembling hand. Certainly not loud enough to be heard over America's din on the left side of the U, and hardly audible where Romano sat between a Mediterranean melange of Spain and Greece on the right. But he heard the sound like the almond tree leaves whispering outside his bedroom window in the spring winds, the Sirocco that made his blood boil into a little insanity, and he saw the further paling of already fair skin, and the Sirocco tearing through his garden back home made anger roil through him like thunder. 'Shut the fuck up and stop using that goddamn word, you arrogant asshole,' he snarled.

'What?' America protested. 'Nazi's just a word! We use it like a metaphor, you know? A joke! Like ha ha you pasta Nazi, won't do anything without tomatoes!'

'You might be able to use it without hearing screams of the dying but most of us didn't sit around on our fat asses until things got too personal to ignore.'

America's face turned ugly. 'And you'd know all about it, fucking fascist,' he sneered. Spain, his eyes warning of the buried savagery nearly pushed to the surface, slammed his hands on the table as he stood, but Romano pulled him back into his seat, clutching his hand under the table to calm him down. 'And you're forgetting who won the whole war in the first place!'

'Canada,' Romano said flatly, and the vague blond nation shot up in surprise. 'Canada and England stopped the fighting. No-one wins a war like that.' America opened his mouth to keep arguing but Romano cut in. 'Now stop acting like such a naive, childish bastard and sit down and shut up.'

'I'm not-'

'Fine,' Romano said shortly. 'I'll have Italy market citrus jello as Agent Orange .'

And America glared wretchedly at him, loathing and angry, but he pressed his lips together and sat down. All the nations were staring at the two of them now- all but a faintly shaking blond. Romano scowled at the tabletop. Medium brown wood-pattern laminate. No-one made solid wood furniture in any large amounts anymore, unless to sell for a fucking fortune. God damn Sweden. As the room slowly filled with rising murmurs he was aware in the corner of his eye of France rising from his seat and coming to rest gracefully in a crouch at Romano's side, their eyes level (and Romano wasn't that short, dammit, Francis was just that freakishly tall!).

'Merci, mon cher Romain,' he murmured for Romano's ears only, and he was so perfectly serious that it was almost difficult to remember that this was the same man who usually threw roses at him and hid in streetside bushes to grope his ass. 'It is sometimes difficult for me to choose between my own family and the family of my dearest friend. Merci for protecting him when I am unable to do so.' Francis cupped his cheeks and gently pulled Romano's head down to place a warm, dry, lingering kiss on his forehead. Romano bore this silently with eyes closed until the hands left his face.

'Always knew you were a coward,' he muttered. Francis laughed.

'Only a coward! With no swearing? Ah , cher Romain, you do love me! Come, give frère aîné Francis a kiss!'

'Shut up and get back to your own damn table, idiot!'

Francis pirouetted back across the room to England's side. On Romano's left, Greece remained a warm and silent presence; he knew what things had been like for Italy even better than Spain did. And in the middle of the table arrangement, a now-steady Aryan restacked his papers with a militant efficiency and a loud call of 'will everyone get back into order!' Romano was momentarily caught by piercing, pale blue eyes before they turned back to a meeting plan. The glance didn't say much, but it didn't really need to as shared history is, of course, shared knowledge and any more sharing would just be embarrassing, so blue eyes narrowed importantly as a German voice boomed out and hazel eyes turned away lazily as an Italian sotto voce asked a Spaniard to find his damn lunchbox, he was fucking starving, and 'stop eyeing my pizza like that you greedy tomato bastard, you're not getting any! Yeah, well fuck you!'


	5. A dinner by a Don

Apologies to anyone who thought I might update with a semblance of regularity. Well, now you know better.

* * *

'We-eeest! The clothes dryer is beeping at me!'

'That's because it's done,' Ludwig grunted, shifting a pile of dirty dishes into the sink.

'Are you sure?' Gilbert's voice yelled back. 'I think it's just saluting to the honour of carrying my awesome clothes! Hey, I _knew_ you stole my Gilshirt.'

'It was filthy,' Ludwig said with distaste, heading back to the laundry room to see his brother pulling a large white pyjama top decorated with yellow chicks- apparently a gift from Denmark- from the dryer. 'You can't sleep in it every night without washing it, that's unhygienic. It smelled horrible.'

'Yeah, yeah, you're just jealous of my awesome manly odour! Huh? Whose are these?' Gilbert held up a pair of slim, dark pinstripe trousers, much too small to belong to either of the Germans, and smirked over the waistband at him. 'Well, well, well, kleinen bruder! Finally growing up, are we? Kesesesesesese! Whose are these, then, and how did I not know about it?'

'They're Romano's,' Ludwig replied, straight-faced.

Gilbert blanched, gagged, and started banging his head against the washing machine in such an exact copy of Romano that he couldn't help cracking a smile. 'Why, West? Why?' Gilbert whined. 'You could at least have gone for the cute one!'

Ludwig raised an eyebrow. 'That's a little hypocritical of you, isn't it, bruder?' he said, and for the first in a long time he was treated to the great satisfaction of having made the great Prussia speechless.

/

Romano showed up at precisely twenty minutes past eight- exactly an hour and twenty minutes after they had agreed upon. Just late enough to be properly annoying, he figured. But apparently the Germans had never lost their gift for anticipating the enemy, because Prussia was just walking out from the shower and Germany himself was selecting a bottle of wine from a kitchen rack as he let himself loudly in. 'Alright, where are my trousers?' he asked without preamble, looking around. The house wasn't as sterile as he'd expected. Painfully clean, sure, but with just as much pale wood as stainless steel and with colourfully-striped rugs softening the pine floors. German posters and photos of German scenery and prints of Prussian and German buildings covered the walls- pale green in the entry hall, bright blue leading off to the lounge, warm sunny yellow in the kitchen.

Prussia smirked wickedly as he rubbed a towel over his silver hair, made grey by the water, and Germany answered without turning round. 'They're sitting on top of the dryer. Would you prefer a cabernet or a merlot to start?'

'I'm not drinking any of your Rhine-grown piss, I brought my own. Where's the dryer?'

Prussia cackled as he slung an arm round Romano's shoulders. 'What, you don't know? I'd have thought you two had done it in every room in the house by now, a hot little Italian stallion like you and a big beefy stud like Westen!' He broke off, doubled over and gasping, as Romano and Germany simultaneously drove a fist into his stomach.

'Stop talking shit and go out to the car, you deranged idiot,' Romano snapped before Germany had a chance to say anything. Dinner's in the backseat.'

As Gilbert limped off, whining about unawesome brothers, Germany raised an eyebrow at him. 'I had planned to order food from a local Italian restaurant,' he said mildly.

Romano was a little startled at his show of thoughtfulness. Not like he'd admit it, though. 'Che. How authentic could they be when they have to use German ingredients?' he scoffed.

Ludwig leaned back against the counter, a long, thick board of smoothly worn pine that Romano secretly rather admired. What? It'd be handy for rolling out pizza dough!

'Your brother likes it.'

Romano's scoff was genuine this time, and he mirrored the blond's relaxed gesture by leaning his side against the shining steel fridge, hoping to 'accidentally' leave fingerprints. 'Feliciano is _North_ Italy, fuckwit! We don't have the same foods all over the country, you know? Anyway, his tastebuds got ruined by all that time he spent with goddamn Austria.'

'What about Specs?' Gilbert sailed through the door, carrying a cardboard box with a large iron roasting pan in his hands and a canvas bag over his shoulder.

'He has horrible taste,' Romano said blandly.

Gilbert laughed. 'Won't argue with you there, Lovi. West you gotta come look at this, it smells awesome!'

Germany looked confused as Romano unpacked the hot pan from its next of kitchen towels. 'I thought you didn't like being called 'Lovi'?'

'And I thought you didn't like being called 'West,'' Romano snapped in reply, his face reddening. Once Gilbert got an idea in his head... 'Now bastard, are you gonna get some plates or are we just gonna fucking stare at it?'

/

They spent the entire night on the lounge sofa, Gilbert naturally throwing himself in the middle, steadily working their way through Romano's culinary offerings: a classic Sicilian caponata which Gilbert deemed 'awesome,' and Ludwig privately agreed, though he didn't voice his opinion for fear of having the embarrassed chef's blushing tirade directed at him as well; a freshly made loaf of soft, crusty Italian bread; and for dessert, a chilled glass bowl of tiramisu, which Romano and Gilbert enthusiastically attacked with flourishing spoons, forgoing individual servings. Realising he wouldn't get any of the delicious custard and cream layers if he kept complaining about the danger to his carpet, Ludwig snatched a ladyfinger from his brother and dug in too.

Finally, the food was gone, and all three slouched back on the sofa to nurse their full bellies, watching absorbedly as a flashback showed Vito Corleone deal magnanimously with a terrified landlord.

'Damn,' Gilbert muttered, slouching down and leaning over to press uncomfortably into Ludwig's side. Ludwig shouldered him off. The lighter German slumped instead onto the shoulder of the short Italian on his other side, who grumbled and shuffled a bit but, interestingly, didn't push him away. Gilbert peered up at him, blinking wine-brightened red eyes. 'You should definitely come over more often,' he informed the brunette seriously. 'Your food is awesome. I was getting so fucking tired of wurst and pasta. Make me some of your awesome pizza for lunch tomorrow, ok?'

'Fuck no,' Romano said idly, without any heat.

'Please?'

'Shut up, your brother's missing the movie.' This was said in such a lofty, patronising way that Ludwig remembered, quite suddenly, that Romano was the older brother, too. Was he older than Ludwig?

Gilbert fell silent, but his disappointed pout was visible even from the corner of Ludwig's eye. He never could stand up to that face very well, and wondered if that restaurant made decent pizza. It wouldn't be anything like Romano's, though, he was sure, and now he'd actually tasted South Italy's own cooking, he found himself a little disappointed, too.

A few minutes later, Romano sighed and muttered, 'You're such a loser,' which must have been some kind of acquiescence, because Prussia beamed all the way through the next assassination scene.

/

Ludwig woke up warm, stiff, and weighted down. He'd spent too long living with war and a devious brother to really take his time waking up so he knew several important things within a matter of seconds:

a) no-one was in any immediate physical danger.

b) no-one was physically harmed, though his neck and back would probably pain him through the day.

c) He and his brother lay sprawled moderately comfortably head-to-foot on the lounge sofa, the tv playing an infomercial for some kind of salad chopper and blinking a time of 04:17, a statement confirmed by soft falls of blue-black light and only the faintest scattering of sleepy chirps from outside.

d) a rather-small-but-surprisingly-solid dark haired man lay beneath the fairer German, murmuring quietly in Italian and stroking Gilbert's hair with one arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders because

e) Gilbert was crying.


	6. A waking and an addition

The Great Prussia never cried with tears; Ludwig learned that when he was very young. But when he was finally left with just his little baby brother and his anger had run its course, Gilbert would go through the other physical motions, shuddering and gasping and clutching the only person in the world he trusted so well close to his chest. But apparently Ludwig wasn't the only one Gilbert really trusted anymore, and apparently it wasn't new, because contact-phobic Romano was dealing better than Ludwig himself usually did if the rapid diminishing of Gilbert's harsh breaths was anything to go by. He strained his ears to listen, momentarily confused as to why he could not understand- then he realised that Romano wasn't speaking Italian at all but _French_, of all things.

_'That's it, calm down...stop breathing so hard, how unawesome would it be if you passed out and we had to take you to the hospital because you hyperventilated? Che...you big idiot...don't you know your brother wouldn't let you go so easily? You're still here...'_

Ludwig swallowed. He'd thought before how their friendship might have been based, he'd told himself that even the Great Prussia couldn't be without any fear of fading, but he'd never seen his brother break down like this before- not since Friedrich died. He looked up and found Romano staring at him, his eyes glowing green like a cat's, but his hands never paused in their grounding movements and Gilbert seemed unaware that he'd woken up.

'_Relax,_' Romano soothed, his tanned fingers a deep contrast in Gilbert's silver hair and his arm a dark band across the pale, muscled back. When had his shirt come off, anyway? Come to think of it, where was Romano's? '_If you go, so do I, and I'm not fucking leaving my tomato garden for Feliciano and your brother to turn into a damn potato farm, ok? I'm not going anywhere, so you're not going anywhere. _Oi, cabbagehead, take off your shirt and c'mere.'

It took Ludwig a moment to realise that these words were in English and directed at him. Gilbert had tensed in the silence, but miraculously not moved away to spring up with an armour of pride and bravado, so Ludwig decided the best way of preserving the fragile trust of the moment was to do whatever the dominating Italian said. He unbuttoned his shirt and cast it aside along with his black vest, ruffling his sleep-loosened hair, and moved closer to the odd pair.

'You can't feel so lonely when you're warm, can you?' Romano murmured quietly, and the way he said it sounded more like he was speaking from experience than asking a question. 'There's no mistaking someone's heat or weight for a dream.'

And Ludwig thought he was starting to understand. Crawling forward, he carefully- trying not to crush the smallest of their trio at the bottom of the pile- lay his considerable, heavily-muscled bulk over his brother's back, resting his cheek on one pale shoulder as Romano shifted to run his hands up and down Gilbert's arms where they wrapped around the Italian's middle. Ludwig sighed into the warm skin, the reassuring _thud thud-d thud-d thud-d _of Gilbert's heart beating just below his own.

'Anyone who wants to take you away will have to come through me. Even death,' he muttered, and he allowed his protective thoughts to include a certain dark half-nation even as his arms carefully bypassed the volatile man to encircle only his quieting brother, holding him tightly under his strong chest. They lay like that for a long while, the birds slowly growing in cheer and the tv switching over to a strangely surreal advert for something with Lukas Podolski in a police uniform and then to another infomercial, this time with a suspiciously happy man and a contraption to clean carpets. Or feed cats, or both at once. None of them spoke until the paling light had crept halfway up the west wall.

'This is _so_ gay,' Gilbert muttered into the tanned chest that served as his pillow.

Romano snorted.

'Don't you try complaining, shorty, you started it,' Gilbert added, though he didn't lift his head, and it only seemed to make Romano try harder to hold back a laugh. Picking up on Ludwig's curiosity Gilbert craned his neck to peer up at the Italian's reddening face, still without rising. 'What's with you? You look like you're about to burst into giggles. Are you? Let me get a camera first, Tonio would probably give me all of Barcelona for a video of that.'

Romano's willpower gave out and he burst into bright laughter, pushing ineffectually at Gilbert's shoulders. 'Stop talking, goddammit! Your fucking beard tickles!'

Gilbert smirked wickedly, turning his face to look up at his brother and show off his thick silvery stubble. 'Whaddya think, West? A little payback for all that name-calling?'

Ludwig propped himself up on one arm to rub the other hand over his own blond chin. 'I don't know,' he said doubtfully, though any doubt was feigned. Anything that put that mischievous, oh-so-Prussia smile back on Gilbert's face was ok in his book. 'He _did_ make us dinner.'

'And dessert!' Romano put in quickly, looking decidedly nervous. He squirmed a little as if trying to escape but with the combined heft of both solidly-built German brothers, his effort was in vain.

'Truuue,' Gilbert mused, his gaze far away as though he were seriously considering the matter. But then his eyes snapped back to Romano like a wolf eyeing his prey. 'Not enough, though. Go!'

Romano shrieked like a girl as he was tackled and roughly dragged to the floor, fingers digging into his sides and under his knees. He begged in nearly every language Ludwig knew and a few he didn't for the tickling to stop, laughing to the point of tears, and Ludwig was surprised to find that he and Gilbert weren't far behind.

'Kesesesesese! Bow down to the awesome ruler of the universe and I'll let you go!'

Romano howled as Ludwig found a sensitive spot under his arm. 'Never, potato bastards!'

Gilbert laughed raucously and they drove back in.

/

'You know,' Romano muttered as he lay limp and breathless on the rug, 'that was even gayer than sleeping on the same couch.'

Gilbert kicked him halfheartedly, also sprawled in exhaustion on the floor. 'Fuck off, runt.'

'Fuck you, cunt.'

'Bitch.'

'Potato head.'

'Tomato sucker.'

'Tomato fucker- hey, is _that _how your eyes got like that?'

'Kesesese-ow! Westen, you kicked me!'

Ludwig rolled his eyes as he knotted his tie. 'That barely qualified as a tap. Get up, the sink is full of dishes.'

Gilbert blinked at him. 'So?'

'So, I made dinner, he's got to go to work, that means you're stuck with dish duty, dumbass,' Romano scoffed, nudging Gilbert's leg with his foot. He got clumsily to his feet and stretched. 'And hurry up, I wanna leave soon.'

'But you have to make me breakfast and lunch first!'

Romano stared. 'Who says?'

'The Awesome Prussia!'

'No.'

'Romanoooo,' Gilbert whinged. 'You promised last night!'

'I don't think I did.'

'Well, as good as.' Gilbert flopped onto his side. And onto Ludwig's newly shined shoes. 'You're such a bitch.'

'A busy bitch.'

'How can you be busy?' Gilbert asked incredulously. 'You never work, you just sit around all day going 'Waaah, fucking shit, someone fucking bring me a goddamn tomato, where's my fucking coffee! Oh no, I've been awake for two whole fucking goddamn hours, time to fucking sleep-''

'Alright, alright! I'll stay and cook you food!' Romano groaned.

'What, can't take the heat anymore?' Gilbert smirked.

'You wouldn't know what hot _is_ anymore, the only girls you ever see are _online_-'

'And you should try it sometime yourself, they probably beat those scary beefy _bears_ you call women in Italy- Ludwig, he kicked me!'

'He kicked _me_ first!'

'That was like, ten minutes ago, you can't tattle on me for that now!'

Ludwig grabbed his keys, strode resolutely from the house, and climbed into his car. He dropped his head into his hands. 'How, in the name of God, did I invite my older bruder's friend for dinner, and wake up with two children?'

* * *

_Many thanks to those of you following this story. I'll try not to leave it so long...hope you're still enjoying where it's going!_


	7. A memory remembered differently now

_With heaps of thankyous to SpadedHeart and Artemis1000, without whose lovely reviews this'd probably be another month in coming!_

* * *

The first time he'd seen Romano after the war had been during the next world meeting, some time after the surrender of Japan. Both were pale and gaunt, one because of a ravaged nation, the other because of that and the heavy reparations forced upon him by the allies. Spain, still uncharacteristically serious, stuck close to Romano's side as thought waiting for his once-ward to collapse. Ludwig tried not to think about the empty space next to him, or about memories of Gilbert's special brand of nursing.

_'Aww, you had a nightmare? C'mere, kiddo. Don't worry, the nightmares won't dare come after you when the awesome Prussia is here! Hey, you wanna hear a story? How about the time I awesomely chopped this one soldier guy into a million little bloody pieces? Kesesesesese!'_

_'Aww, has mein poor little Luddy got an unawesome stomach-ache? You wanna know the best cure for a stomach-ache? _Bier!_ Er- but not til you're maybe twelve, ok? Here, d'you want a strawberry cake to make you feel better?'_

He sat through the meeting in silence, never once meeting anyone's eyes.

The end was signalled by England throwing a book at America's head and a good deal of nervous muttering about Russia and Cuba's quiet talk in the corner. Ludwig waited for everyone to leave, feeling awkward standing in their presence. He might be thinner and a little sickly, but he was still taller than most, and it just didn't feel right to remain towering over their heads when his people were grovelling at their feet.

When the conference room doors finally clicked softly shut and the space fell into cheap-carpet-muffled silence, he raised his eyes to the level of the table and began methodically, carefully packing away his things from top of the pile to bottom. Meeting notes. China's proposal for trade agreements. France's notice about a new blight to certain apple crops. Meeting agenda. Spare ruled paper. Spare graphing paper. Folder with previous notes and fact sheets for reference. A lightly tanned pair of thin, long-fingered hands.

Ludwig paused with his hands still holding the two that had appeared on top of his binder. He blinked. He raised his head. Romano stood before him, leaning over the table, a slight smirk quirking his fire-chapped lips.

'You know, I usually like to throw around a little flattery or two before I move on to the touching. I have a certain reputation to maintain.'

Ludwig dropped the calloused, manicured hands (and didn't that just fit; during the war his intelligence had reported that South Italy had an odd penchant for working in ancient rural farmyards while wearing an angora sweater and tailored trousers) as though they'd shocked him. Romano scoffed.

'What, now I'm not good enough for you? Bastard.'

Ludwig almost cracked a smile.

'Whatever, the cabbage patch freak left these with Spagna a long time ago and forgot because he's an idiot. I'm spring cleaning his house and he's got enough fucking _stuff_ already, he doesn't need your damn clutter as well!' And with that, Romano hauled up a big old shopping bag from the floor, dropped it heavily onto the table, and strode quickly from the room, Spain collecting him halfway through the door with an arm around his shoulders and a heavy-eyed, indecipherable look back at Ludwig before they disappeared down the hall. The doors swung slowly shut.

He reached out for the bag with trembling hands and pulled it closer, not caring that he was rumpling his papers, and stood to peer inside. His throat closed up. On top of the pile was one of Gilbert's oldest blue uniform coats, cleaned and pressed with the red cuffs and lining as bright as ever and the gold buttons polished to a brilliant shine. The corner of a spotless white cravat showed just under the stiff collar, and a note was carefully pinned to one sleeve.

_Spagna'd dig out his pirate costume and they'd play dress-up, running round my towns and terrorising my women._

Tucked under the sleeve was a small stack of photos, all showing Prussia and Spain in their 18th-century uniforms- joined in a few photos by Romano in normal clothes- striking poses, leaping off town walls, dancing through fountains, bowing and kissing the hands of delighted elderly women. In every photo they were laughing like children on their happiest summer days, grinning wide enough to overtake their faces and cavorting like the world had never been so bright. Romano, standing between the two with their arms slung over his shoulders in one and frantically trying to push away a puckered-lipped Prussia in another, looked just as happy, though trying to hide his smile.

Ludwig reverently set the jacket and photos aside, and went back to the bag. Next was a beer glass with a mess of illegible etchings, another note taped to it.

_He said he was making you a beer glass with a German eagle and some quote from his 'Alte Fritz' for your birthday but he forgot he has no artistic talent, so he and Spagna got drunk with the thing instead and it rolled under a sofa._

Now that he looked closely at it, he could sort of make out the shape of body and wings. Maybe in better light he'd be able to make out which quote Gilbert had intended to give him. The photo tucked inside the glass was of Gilbert and Spain passed out on Spain's sitting room sofa, sprawled over each other with mouths wide open and both inexplicably clutching stuffed toy sheep to their drool-dotted chests.

Further on in the bag was a number of books, a few shirts and hats and gloves, a papier mâché wurst, quill and fountain pens Ludwig actually recognised, a bound booklet of cake recipes, a small Prussian flag that had been scribbled on to give the eagle a moustache and a silly hat while the white background was covered in handwriting he knew to be Gilbert's, Spain's, France's, and occasionally Romano's; in the bottom was an antique beer stein stuffed full of little fabric scraps embroidered with black eagles and yellow chicks and Teutonic crosses and horses and little blond boys which had apparently been left sometime in the 1600s.

Each object had a note delicately attached, giving him an explanation of the item and a Romano-style (rude and sarcastic, subtly gentle and always witty) peek into one side of Gilbert's world he'd never really been a part of. Most had photos. The clothes all carried an image of Gilbert wearing whatever it was, usually in the middle of some comical exploit. The wurst had a photo of Gilbert and Antonio laughing together at a majestic wooden kitchen table, covered in glue and scraps of tissue paper.

Between the pages of the books were pictures of Gilbert in a quieter state, one Ludwig had rarely seen except when they were home alone on early mornings or mellow evenings. Lounging in a bulky library chair with an old book in his lap, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. Standing at a kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up and arms powdered white as he pressed his hands into a deep bowl. Sleeping on the floor before a fireplace under a quilt patterned with the shared German and Prussian eagle, his hair tufted in every direction and a pile of happy dogs draped over his stomach. This last photo was on its own, and, scribbled on the back under the original caption of the date, was a pencilled note reading '_quilt's still here, wouldn't fit in the bag, dogs won't leave it alone and I'm not getting bit by his fanclub for the sake of spring cleaning so you'll have to wrestle it away from them yourself!'_

Uncaring that he was in the open conference room of a popular hotel in a foreign city, Ludwig clutched the Prussian uniform coat to his chest, buried his nose in that warm-cold scent of mulling spices, northern forests, leather, and iron that had always lingered around his brother, and cried for the first time since the war ended, a smile unwavering on his lips.


End file.
